挂在门楣上的粽叶已经发出了灰褐色。风飒飒地吹着那捆粽叶,很像是雨声。真的下雨了,雨丝白茫茫地扫过村弄,在我家门前织起一张网,那捆粽叶又沙沙地响起来,像是风声了。祖母坐在门槛上,注视着檐下的雨水像小瀑布一样跌落下来,汇在石硌路上,匆匆忙忙地流走了。很早以前祖母就聋了,但是那个秋天她说她什么都听见了。每天早晨她被雨声和潮声惊醒,便 Hung leaves hanging on the lintel has been issued a taupe. Wind blowing that bundle of bamboo leaves, much like a rain sound. It really rained, rain swept the vast white village, in front of my house weaving a net, the bundle of bamboo leaves rustled again, like the wind. Grandmother sat on the threshold, watching the rain under the eaves fall like a small waterfall, sink in the Shijie Road, hurriedly flow away. Grandmother deaf had long ago, but that autumn she said she heard everything. Every morning she was awakened by the rain and the tide, then